


Coalesce

by lapoesieestdanslarue



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: A hogwarts au!!!!, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, Oblivious Enjolras, Very very minor, bless him though, it's minor though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 16:54:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8999140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lapoesieestdanslarue/pseuds/lapoesieestdanslarue
Summary: Seven years, two boys, one love story and all the emotions in between.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [maharlika](https://archiveofourown.org/users/maharlika/gifts).



> Coalesce;  
> To unite, grow or come together over time to form one mass or a whole.
> 
> 1\. I am so sorry that this took forever, oh my gosh. I had the worst case of writers blockat the start, and then inspiration hit which has lead to a 12,000+ word fic being written over the span of two weeks. As you can see, it started growing heads and tails and it wouldn't really let me let it go. But I wanted to make sure you got something good that I was genuinely proud of, as oposed to something I just threw down. (And I'm pretty proud of this)
> 
> 2\. I know this probably isn't what you had in mind when you asked for something with a magical-element, probably something with more of a focus on actual magic and maybe a bit more elegant, and given more time, I would have loved to give you that, but as it fell this was what I conjured up. It still fits the prompt, though, so hopefully you don't mind too much!
> 
> 3\. There's a brief mention of suicide in a confrontation between Grantaire and Enjolras, so watch out for that. (But very, very brief.)
> 
> 4\. Thank you for reading!

The very first time Grantaire ever sees him, he’s two months into his first year at Hogwarts. He’s decided (Not really. Forced is more like it) to ‘spread his wings’ and attend a chess tournament organised by a fellow Ravenclaw. It hadn’t been his idea, but Valjean was the head of the Muggle Integration Programme and after dodging many of his other attempts at ‘integrating’ Grantaire, the older man was a hair’s breadth from locking him in a room with the rest of the first years and leaving him to fend them off. Grantaire had eventually succumbed, and chosen the most interesting thing going about the Ravenclaw common room-- which is how he’s landed himself in one of the spare classrooms on a Saturday afternoon, warily eying students from various houses, frustrated and hunched over chessboards. He’s suffocating in his own skin, he does not belong here, he is a stranger, and now he’s really regretting not putting extra effort into bribing Eponine to come with him.

The door slams shut noisily behind Grantaire, and the murmur of conversation that had previously occupied the room stopped abruptly, and all eyes on the room turned to gawk at him curiously, a stifling silence permeating the room. 

It’s broken then by a tall, gangly boy with light brown skin standing up abruptly-- Grantaire recognised him as being in his own house, and all he knew was that his name was a mouthful, but then again, who was he to speak?-- the scraping of his chair legs against the stone of the floor causing an almighty screech that scraped throughout the place. 

“Hello,” He says, with an infinite sort of calm in his voice, gazing at him with kind eyes and a gentle smile. “You’re Grantaire, yeah? I’m Combeferre. We’re both in Ravenclaw, your dorm room is across from mine.”

“Oh, uh, yeah,” He replies, eloquent as ever.

Combeferre’s smile grows steadily, and he ushers him over with an enthusiastic hand. “Come here, you can play with us.”

Grantaire makes his way over, and thankfully the stares subside and chatter takes up once more. Combeferre’s still standing when Grantaire makes his way over to him, and holds out his hand to shake. Grantaire takes it, and yes, he’s definitely seen that face before. Not too many others frequent the library at such ungodly hours. 

Combeferre introduces to him Courfeyrac, a grinning Hufflepuff with a mop of curls that rival Grantaire’s own.

“Here, sit down,” Combeferre gestures for him to sit down opposite the chessboard. “Do you know how to play wizarding chess?”

Grantaire shakes his head. “No, I’m muggleborn. The board doesn’t look too different though.”

Courfeyrac’s smile grows wolfish. “Muggleborn? That is _epic_. And wait till you see _this_. It’s a riot.” Combeferre begins to sort the pieces into their rightful places, and Courfeyrac continues to chat away. “So, where are you from, Grantaire?”

“North London, and god, call me R.”

“Okay,” Combeferre announces, not before he flashes an appreciative smile at the pun that is Grantaire’s name. “I think we’re all set. R, you can have the first move.”

He regards the board in a brief glance before going to move his knight-- except it’s not moving.

Comebeferre has that same patient smile on his face. “Ah, while the concept is identical to muggle’s chess, we have one slight change, look-- pawn to D3.” With that, one of Combeferre’s stirs, and then shuffles across the board, before he commands it back.

R feels a smile tug at his lips, still amazed that magic is a real, tangible thing at his disposal. 

“It’s like battleship,” Courfeyrac explains. “The notations are all the same. And it is the same as your chess-- muggle chess-- you just speak it, instead.”

“Knight to E5,” He instructs, just to see if it works, and then his knight is moving across the board, all by itself.

The three of them share a grin, almost conspiratorial, before Combeferre retaliates, and Grantaire leans back in his chair, letting the game begin.

~*~

“Enjolras!”

He whipped his head around to find the source of the noise amidst the students when he sees a frantic waving hand, and Courfeyrac is dashing towards him, with curls flopping into his eyes and an unapologetic grin. “Ferre’s over here,” He says, dragging him by the hand. “Their match is nearly over, we can play after them.”

Enjolras can certainly make out Combeferre’s head from the sea of others, but can’t see his opponent’s. Either his competitor is a ghost, or just quite small. 

Courfeyrac shoves him into a spare seat, and plonks himself down into the chair next to it. Finally, Enjolras gets a view of the other boy. Unruly black curls obscure most of his face, but he can still make out pale skin, a glimpse of green eyes and impossibly red lips quirked in a smirk. Where Ferre is hunched over the board, the boy is leant back in his chair, the very picture of nonchalance-- And dishevelment as Enjolras notes his creased robes, skewed tie and untucked shirt. 

After he catches sight of the board, he scoffs. “Looks like Ferre’s got an easy win.”

Courfeyrac wears an easy smile as rocks back and forth in his chair. “Oh, I dunno. From what I hear, he might have a run for his money.”

What Enjolras sees unfolding next is a true, genuine act of magic- In the space of about fifteen minutes, Ferre gets positively _demolished_ by the boy. Which is magic in itself, because for the past month Ferre has been holding the Wizard’s Chess club he’s been the undisputed champion across the board. But instructions fall steadfast from the boy’s lips, confident and unwavering, until all that’s left is broken white marble in a pile, while a significant amount of the black pieces remain.

“Lift your jaw up off the floor,” Courfeyrac whispers to Enjolras’s gaping mouth. “You’ll catch flies.”

What follows is even more magical, Ferre laughs and offers the boy his hand, and he replies in kind, a crooked grin on his face, and Ferre tells him-- R, apparently, who the hell calls themselves _R_?-- that he’ll be in the library tomorrow if he’d like a rematch. _R_ stands up and stretches, tells him it’s a deal, and is then accepting an invitation to eat with their group tonight at dinner. Enjolras is nearly sure there was some kind of formal greeting between them, but he can’t remember much, just how warm R’s hand had felt in his when they shook, how nice his name sounded when it came from his own rose-red lips, and the constant, uncontrollable thrumming of Enjolras’s heart against his ribcage, beating loudly and furiously, begging to be released.

His heart doesn’t settle down for a while, after that.

~*~

“So,” Combeferre says, interrupting the quiet that settled between himself and R as they watched the pawns piece themselves back together. “I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

R quirks an eyebrow. “If you want to know how I’ve been cheating, first of all no, second of all, I haven’t been, please check your ego, and thirdly, even if I _was_ , why would I tell you?”

Combeferre wears a sly grin. “Sure you’re not a Slytherin? Anyways, back to the topic at hand-- I really enjoyed having you at chess club yesterday, and so did Courfeyrac and Enjolras.”

Grantaire’s heart speeds up immediately at the mention of him. And honestly, Grantaire still couldn’t believe that he was a real, tangible thing. Cheekbones like that deserved to be on a throne, worshipped, depicted on the covers of a magazine or a billboard or something, _anything_ , but not here, in Hogwarts. Granted, it was a magical place, with a beauty to rival, but what Enjolras-- Honestly, what kind of name was that? _Enjolras_ \-- possessed was an otherworldly kind of magic, an essence that couldn’t be captured in a spell or a charm or a potion. He was a kind of wild energy, but he harnessed it so beautifully.

Christ, he met the guy for a grand total of five seconds and he’s already composing love sonnets in his name.

“We have another kind of club,” Combeferre is saying, and Grantaire has to reel himself in from getting trapped in the hole of thinking about the blonde-haired beauty. “It’s nothing much, at the minute, we’re still kind of looking for foundation members, and as much as Enjolras likes to believe, we can’t sustain it with just the three of us.”

Grantaire frowns. “What kind of club are you talking about?”

Combeferre leans forward, an excitement in his eyes and his smile that Grantaire has seen before in classes, but it differs slightly, this is more electric, more enticing. “We want to create a kind of… Forum? I suppose that’s the best word to use. The crux of it is that we want a place that students can come to to voice concerns about problems that they’re facing in the school, or ways that it can be improved. We don’t want to challenge the establishment, exactly, but we do want to bring about change in what is already a flawed system within the wizarding community as a whole.”

“Like what?” He asks, eyes narrowing.

“The close-mindedness of wizards, for one. I’m a half-blood, but even then I’m at a loss a fair amount of muggle pop culture. More basic things, as well, like an LGBTQ+ support group, more encouragement of multiculturalism within the school, putting an end to house prejudices.”

Grantaire, loath as he is to admit it, is intrigued. It may well be a case of shouting into a void, but if he gets to spend time with Combeferre and see Enjolras again, then really, what does he have to lose?

“And what exactly do you call yourselves?”

Combeferre’s grin is gigantic and filled with pride as he answers, “Les Amis de l’ABC.”

~*~

Enjolras’s chest buzzes with excitement as he organises his papers, brief outlines of what they wish to discuss. He scans the small gathering of students that have filled the room- A lanky freckled Hufflepuff that Courfeyrac introduces as Marius, and with him a small, slight Gryffindor named Cosette, the adoptive daughter of the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, Valjean. 

Feuilly, a fellow Slytherin and one of Enjolras’s roommates, has come along too, and Enjolras’s smile only grows when he sees he’s brought someone else, another Gryffindor, Bahorel. 

“If we get anymore Gryffindors in here it’s going to start looking like a Chudley Cannons quidditch game,” Courfeyrac grins, before going to drag a Hufflepuff like himself through the door. “Jehan!” He exclaims, throwing his arms wide, and the other boy giggles, light-sounding, almost like windchimes. “And you brought Bossuet!”

Bossuet is the built like a beater, tall and muscular, and his his dark brown head is shaved, just the barest hint of black hair. The boy that must be Jehan is beside him, so small that he has to crane neck to just to look at Courfeyrac. There’s a light dusting of freckles across his nose and cheekbones, and his strawberry blonde hair is tied back in a messy plait, with what might be flowers weaved throughout but Enjolras can’t be sure; they could also be owl feathers from the looks of it. 

Behind them, two Ravenclaws slink inside, a pale boy with neat brown hair, the other a dark-skinned girl with wild curls and brown eyes that glint mischievously with her smile.

“Hello,” Combeferre greets with a warm smile and a firm handshake. “Nice to see familiar faces. Enjolras, this is Joly and Musichetta.”

Enjolras holds out his hand. “Pleasure to meet you,” He says as they exchange another round of handshakes. “Thank you for coming along, it means a lot.”

The girl, Musichetta, grins. “Pleasure’s ours. Anything to get some dirt on the boy giving me a run for my money in charms.”

Combeferre laughs. “You know as well as I do that you could hex me six ways to Sunday before I’d even get my wand out.”

“And you’d better remember it,” She teases.

It’s nice, Enjolras thinks, as he scans the room, lets the happy chatter of his friends, and hopefully soon to be members of the ABC, wash over him. He turns back to Combeferre, tugging on his sleeve gently. “I think we can get started soon--”

He’s interrupted by the door flying opening and banging noisily against the wall. “Shit,” Someone curses. “Sorry.”

His eyes fly up and there, disheveled as always, is that green eyed, curly haired Ravenclaw, R, from the chess tournament. 

Annoyingly, Enjolras’s brain decides to short circuit and the only thing he can think of is that his lips are still really, really red.

“No worries, R,” Combeferre says easily. “Come in, sit down. And your friend is?”

“Oh, yeah, this is Ep,” He answers, walking up to them-- He’s _walking up to them_ is Enjolras seriously sweating right now? It’s probably just pre-speech nerves, and excitement. He’s just a bit overly excited that R is here because with an intelligence to rival Combeferre’s, someone like that is exactly what they need. It’ll be brilliant, he can practically _feel_ it. They’re going to bring about real change to Hogwarts, and leave it ten times better than they’ve found it. 

“Eponine,” The girl amends, with a tiny, self-deprecating grin twisting itself on her mouth, and brown hair nearly as messy as R’s pulled back into a ponytail, a few stray strands nearly obscuring the Gryffindor badge on her jumper. She walks over to the other Gryffindors, and R is left alone with them. 

R is staring at _him_.

“Well, fearless leader?” He asks, and Enjolras doesn’t even have it in him to act on the annoyance that flashes through him, because R has a crooked grin and for some reason Merlin only knows it renders Enjolras damn near speechless. “What do you have for us today?”

“R’s right,” Combeferre says at his side calmly, and it’s almost irritating how perfectly _calm_ he is right now. “We should probably get a move on.”

“Oh, right, yes-- Hello!” Silence falls across the room, and suddenly all eyes are on him. There’s a slight itch beneath his skin, but he ignores it in favour of standing up on a desk. “Thank you all for being here, it means a lot to us. For those of you who don’t know, we are Les Amis de l’ABC, and we strive to bring change to Hogwarts during our seven years here.”

“What kind of changes?” Bahorel asks from the back, dangerously teetering on two legs of his chair.

“Ideally, we want an inclusive school, free from house and muggle prejudices. What I posit, and what Les Amis de l’ABC posits, is that the Wizarding world needs to progress with the muggle world, we need to stop holding ourselves back because we believe that our magical blood makes us somehow superior. Why should we close ourselves off from fellow humans just because they don’t posses the same magical qualities we do? In the last decade, muggle technology has advanced at twice that speed magic ever has. Magic is a concept-- Just because someone can’t levitate a cup doesn’t make them inherently lesser, I couldn’t use one of those automobiles, or mobile devices the muggles love so dearly, and that doesn’t _me_ lesser either. We have to stop dividing our worlds in two, and instead accept them as one.”

R has a funny look on his face, it’s part grimace part grin. “And how exactly do you aim to do this?”

“Obviously, we can’t expect to achieve any of this in it’s entirety from our seven years here. But we can begin to make a difference within Hogwarts. The Muggle Integration Programme is good, but it’s not effective enough. Yes, it might integrate muggles into our society, but why shouldn’t we be integrated partially to theirs? Muggle studies has one of the lowest rates of attendance, and this is in no small part due to the fact that it’s only available as a subject from 4th year on. There’s no exposure to it before then, and most witches and wizards are pushed into it as it. We need to broadcast the voices of muggle students within the school, allow them to practice their cultures without feeling ostracized and introducing these cultures to wizards. We can set up muggle clubs with any muggle or half-blood members of the ABC, we could even possible try to get the school to agree to outings to muggle villages or towns-- R, what is it?”

He tries hard not to be annoyed by the hand waving in the air, like an over-eager five year old. 

“Yeah sorry, what’s your name again? En-jol-ras?”

Irritation flashes through him at the interruption, regardless of how nice R’s lips looked while he did it. “It’s _Enjolras_.”

“Sorry, _Enjolras_.” It’s a testament to Enjolras’s personal strength that he doesn’t focus on how… nice that lazy drawl is. “You’re in fucking _Slytherin_. You should know, first hand, how deep seated muggle prejudice is, and how far widespread it is. It’s practically sponsored by the ministry of fucking magic, and I’ll bet ten to one that you're a pureblood.”

He can feel the blush spread through his face and tinge his ears pink, not out of embarrassment but anger. “My blood line has nothing to do with this.”

“Oh, you’re bloodline has _everything_ to do with this, because it’s people like your parents who advocated these archaic prejudices against muggles, and at the end of the day, you don’t have the balls to stand up to daddy or mummy so long as they keep your bank account in good balance.”

His veins run cold at the mention of his parents, of his _father_ , and he freezes, unable to speak. Ferre’s fingers brush his wrist, Courf’s eyes are trained on him, worried, and worst of all, Feuilly is averting his gaze like he _agrees_ with R.

“I think you’re making a huge generalisation,” Ferre says, quietly and calmly in a way only Combeferre can. “Which is what we’re aiming to tackle-- These kind of senseless house prejudices will only weaken us and destroy us from the inside. There’s already so much needless hate and unrest outside the school walls that we can fix, why allow it to fester here?”

That garners a murmur of approval, and a few tentative suggestions from the others. Enjolras gets off the chair and sits back down as Ferre and Courf take over, trying to recalibrate himself after being knocked off his axis at R’s words. That same boy was sitting across from him now, with cheeks tinged slightly pink and had the decency to look slightly sheepish at his outburst.

Diverting his attention, he turns back to where Combeferre is jotting down the other’s suggestions at some kind of contingency plan at how to battle inter-school prejudices. 

~*~

They form a sort of a motley crew after that, R and the others filling a gap that had gone previously unnoticed by Enjolras, but without them now, Enjolras couldn’t imagine it. Eponine and Bahorel, both Gryffindor’s had joined them, along with two more Ravenclaw’s, Joly and Musichetta. R knew a fair few of their friends too, surprisingly-- He shared classes with Jehan, Bossuet and Marius, and seemed acquainted with Cosette.

(It was a strange first meeting, Cosette flashed him a brilliant smile and said “Muggle Integration Programme not so bad, hmm?”)

Though much to Enjolras’s chagrin, they themselves didn’t interact much. Enjolras was often swept up in conversation with Feuilly or Ferre and Courf or a number of other things, while R kept to the further end of the table, one usually dowsed in laughter and loud storytelling. He can’t place why exactly his lack of conversation with Grantaire grates on him so, but it continues on relentlessly. It’s most likely pent up frustration of things he’d like to say to him, because everytime they do actually talk, it’s less of a friendly conversation, or Merlin, even an impassioned debate, it’s usually an outright argument.

It’s ugly, Enjolras knows. He hates it, but he can’t contain it, despite how hard he tries to bite back whatever sharp comment is on the tip of his tongue, R unleashes another barbed jab, and then Enjolras is spewing off at the mouth again, clouded by anger, or hurt or sheer frustration.

But R is an essential part of their group, a fixture of a kind of fun and carefreeness in his friends lives. He kind of just becomes an annoyance in Enjolras’s.

Good looks aside, Enjolras has never met a more infuriating human being in his life.

He’s never met someone as intelligent and yet so _obtuse_. One minute R will be reciting the specifics of the failed muggle rebellion in France in 1832 and the next he’ll be discounting Enjolras’s entire argument, picking fights just to get his hackles up. Enjolras knows what he says to him in rebuttal are mean, and harsh, but what R says is just as hurtful.

“You heard what he said last meeting,” Enjolras says to Ferre, trying not to moan. “He refuted my entire argument because what would I know about struggling, being a well-off pureblood?”

Combeferre’s previous neutral expression slips, a crease in his brow and his lips tugging downwards into a grimace. “I know that was a particularly badly-aimed jibe at you, but to fair to him, he doesn’t know _anything_. Merlin, Enjolras, most of the wizarding community doesn’t know the truth. I know it hurt, but you have to put it into context.”

Enjolras sighs and breaks away from Combeferre’s analytical gaze, focusing instead on his shoes scuffing the stone floor. 

“You haven’t talked about it,” Ferre says quietly as he examines a book before putting it back on the shelf. 

“There’s nothing to talk _about_.”

Ferre fixes him with a frown. “Losing someone like that--”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” He snaps, and then deflates. “Sorry, I-- Sorry.”

“It’s alright. I shouldn’t have pushed.” Ferre squeezes him on the shoulder and steers him gently out of the library. “Listen, exams are just two weeks away, and after that it’s summer. The next time we’ll be here, we’ll all be a little bit older, and a little bit wiser. You should really give him a chance. I’m sure he’ll have changed.”

“Yes,” He says, lacking slightly in his conviction as uncertainty, in every single sense of the word, seeps into his tone. “You’re right. He’ll have matured, so will I. We’ll be different people.”

~*~

Grantaire didn’t change one bit.

To be fair, Enjolras himself probably hadn’t changed all that much either, he didn’t feel any different from his 1st year self, except he was fairly certain he had grown an extra inch. But the point remained-- The second that Enjolras stepped onto The Hogwarts Express, excited to see his friends again and shake the emptiness of his house out of his bones, R was the first one to greet him.

And okay, maybe Enjolras had exaggerated a bit-- Because R _had_ changed, in that he seemed to have grown nearly a foot in comparison to Enjolras’s megre inch, and his face was hollowing out ever so slightly, gaining the crevices that accentuated his cheekbones really quite nicely.

So when he opened his mouth and sneered “O Captain, My Captain! Our faithful leader has returned!”, it made it all the more irritating.

To be fair, Enjolras managed to grit out what he thought was quite a civil greeting, before sitting down next to Courfeyrac, choosing instead to focus to his friends stories of summer, instead of Grantaire’s eyes boring into the side of his head.

~*~

Enjolras frowned down at his timetable. “Mixed potions? What in Merlin’s name is a _mixed_ potions class?”

“Oh yeah, dad was saying that they’ve introduced mixed ability classes. I was talking to him about how you were saying it’s not fair to put people solely in high-achiever or foundation level classes, so he raised it with the school board and they made some curriculum reforms,” Courfeyrac says offhand. His father has been the proud chairperson of Parents Council ever since Courf’s older brother started at Hogwarts. 

The grin on Enjolras’s face almost hurts, but he’s so happy, Les Amis have made a change, one brick in the wall that they’re going to tear down--

“I think R’s in that class too, actually.”

“ _What_?”

Courf smiles at him innocently. “Oh come on, wipe that sour look off your face. Really, Enj, you just need to give him a chance.”

If looks could kill, Courfeyrac would be five feet in the ground. “Why should I give him a chance if he won’t give me one?” He shoots back, and hates that it sounds petulant.

Courfeyrac rolls his eyes and tugs on his selves, dragging him to the classroom. 

~*~

(In all honesty, Courfeyrac genuinely did suggest the idea to his father, and really, he couldn’t have been expected to predict its success.

He may have charmed the class lists to sort R and Enjolras into the same class, though.)

~*~

“...And finally, Julien Enjolras, you will be partnered with… Ah yes, Sebastien Grantaire.”

“Excuse me, Professor Slughorn, I’d like to request a change in partner.”

“Denied, Enjolras.”

“Can I at least put forward a formal statement?”

“All statements are self-serving, and you, my boy, unfortunately will not be getting out of this particular arrangement. I think you’ll work splendidly together.”

Across the room, Grantaire blows him a kiss, and Enjolras nearly snaps his quill in two.

~*~

To be fair to Grantaire, he’s not actually the _worst_ potions partner someone could wish for. At least he’s somewhat capable, and Enjolras feels fairly safe working with him over someone like Bossuet.

(Bossuet has just grown his eyebrows back from the last potions incident)

But it all comes on the twenty-fourth of November of their second year.

(“Or, as urban legend titles it; The Day Enjolras Lost His Shit, and Thus Ensued a Year Long Adventure in Him Trying To Regain it.”

“Seriously, Courf, I told you to stop calling it that. Marius, don’t listen to him.”

“Stop frowning, dear, you’ll give yourself premature wrinkles.”

“Courf, _shut up_.”)

It goes like this: They had moved on to a new section in potions, wherein they’d be tasked with making draughts and other potions that could directly affect the outcome of a particular situation. 

It was the longest, and hardest, part of the course, and each student with their partners taking their O.W.Ls in potions were required to put in extra effort outside of the classroom, perfecting whatever concoction they were tasked with.

Currently, Enjolras and Grantaire were attempting (with a particular stress on the word _attempt_ ) to make felix felicis. So far, they had done a spectacular job of failing.

Which is why, when R sat down for breakfast on the cold, misty morning of November 24th, he slid Enjolras a small vial filled with a clear liquid.

“What’s that?” Enjolras asked dubiously.

“Vodka,” He deadpans. “What do you think? I worked on the potion again last night. I think I got it right. Try it.”

Enjolras regards him distrustfully, regarding the vial with wariness, like his own personal sword of Damocles, dangling precariously (and quite dangerously) over his sanity.

“It’s the right colour, anyways,” Combeferre says thoughtfully, examining the vial. “Right consistency too.” Carefully, he uncorks it, and takes a tentative sniff. “Smells right, too, a little sharp but I think that might just be the calibre of flux weed you used.”

Enjolras is almost convinced, _almost_ , before he looks back at Grantaire. “Why haven’t you tried it?”

Grantaire rolls his eyes. “Christ, I just thought of the two of us, if anyone deserved the feeling of happiness and some luck, it was you. I’ll drink it, if you really don’t want to--”

“No!” Enjolras hurriedly snatches it out of Combeferre’s hand, and fixes R with an apologetic look. “R, I’m sorry. Thank you. I appreciate it.” To be fair to himself, there’s only mild uncertainty in his voice. He only hesitates for a second, before chugging it back, and wincing at the burn it leaves in his throat.

“Merlin,” He splutters. “Is it meant to burn that much?”

Ferre frowns, and opens his mouth, but then Feuilly is telling Enjolras to hurry up or they’ll be late for class. He turns instead to R.

“Grantaire,” He says slowly.

“Combeferre,” The other boy returns, flashing him a grin around a slice of toast.

“Felix felices isn’t meant to burn you when you drink it.” Combeferre was trying to maintain a calm, but it was hard with his mind racing at ten miles an hour with every worst case scenario.

Grantaire shrugged. “He’s fine. I probably just used too much bugglehorn, it’s fine.”

Combeferre froze, and now it was Grantaire’s turn to frown. “What?”

“Tell me that you burnt the bugglehorn _before_ you put it in the cauldron.”

The look that dawned in Grantaire’s eyes was one of a man who was very soon about to meet his demise.

(“Fuck off it wasn’t that bad.”

“Okay, first off, R, it was absolutely that bad, secondly, don’t poke me with your ugly ass foot ever again.”

“‘Ferre, tell him it wasn’t that bad.”

“It was pretty bad, R.”)

“It didn’t say to do it _before_ \--”

“Because it’s what you _always_ do with bugglehorn!”

“Is he going to die?” Grantaire asks, eyes wild and voice terrified. “Oh shit, Combeferre, did I kill him? Am I a murderer now?”

“No, Grantaire, you haven’t killed him,” He said gravely, something worse altogether to follow. “You’ve just given him a really, really shit day.”

~*~

“What did you do to me?” Enjolras snarled as he stormed into Grantaire’s room.

And he was a sight to behold.

His hair stood up at all ends like he had been electrocuted (he had), with blood running down the side of his face (an unfortunate encounter with a hippogriff) and mud streaked all down his usually pristine robes (the result of trying to run away from aforementioned hippogriff).

In short, he looked like Bossuet on a particularly bad day.

“Um, okay,” Grantaire said cautiously, scooting further and further away as Enjolras came stalking angrily towards him. “So, funny story. Turns out you’re meant to burn bugglehorn _before_ you add it in--”

“Of course you’re supposed to!” Enjolras snapped furiously, arms flying wildly with their gestures. “Do you know what happens if you don’t? It reverses the effects of the potions. And guess what I got?”

Grantaire swallows. “A killer hair-do?”

Enjolras shoves him against the wall. “ _No_. Thanks to your little experiment, I got all the bad luck in the world, you _git_.”

“Um, well, at least you can give Bossuet a run for his money now?” He says, laughing nervously and trying not to gulp as Enjolras’s grasp around his shirt tightens. “I mean, that hair might beat the whole ‘no-eyebrows-phase’ for funniest accident of the year--”

Biting out a frustrated growl, Enjolras lets him go, disgust plain on his face. “Listen, Grantaire. I know you hate me, and you think I’m naive and stupid, and some fucking slytherin who wouldn’t know _real_ struggle if it bit him in the nose, but I’m still a student and I’m just trying to get through this, and we already give each other enough shit, but can we just call a truce?” 

He looks young, impossibly young and too tired, the bags under his eyes are so dark they may well be bruises. 

Grantaire did that.

He knows he did, and he knows that it doesn’t matter how hard he thinks he loves Enjolras or how fiercely he cares or even if righted every wrong-- He shouldn’t ever be forgiven, and he will never, ever deserve Enjolras.

“Enjolras, I didn’t know--”

“Save it,” The other boy says quietly. He steps back, inching towards the door. “Let’s just forget about it.” With that, he opens the door and walks out, closing it quietly behind him.

“I’m sorry.” It feels like a plea, like an admission. 

_I don’t hate you, can’t you see that? I could never hate you._

But Enjolras left and he’s alone in his room and no amount of words could ever fix that.

~*~

“I feel bad about how I yelled at R,” Enjolras says morosely.

“So just _talk_ to him, then,” Combeferre says tiredly, rehashing this same conversation for about the tenth time. He picks out a book and flips through it intently. The rest of the library is filled with like-minded students, christmas exams are coming up and cramming has well and truly begun. 

“I can’t just _talk_ to him Ferre, what in Merlin’s name would I say?” He leans against the bookshelf, scuffing his shoe against the ground and sighing morosely.

Beside his head, Combeferre snaps his book shut, making Enjolras jump up. “Enjolras,” He says calmly. “Has it occurred to you that you may be having a sexual awakening?”

“What?” He splutters. “No. _No._.”

Combeferre nods and tucks the book under his arm, meandering listlessly between the shelves. “Okay.”

“Seriously, ‘Ferre. I am not having a ‘sexual awakening’, and if I was, Grantaire certainly wouldn’t be the one causing it.”

“If you say so.”

“I _do_ ,” Enjolras demands hotly. 

“I believe you.”

“Really?”

“Not in the slightest, my friend.”

“Combeferre.”

“Enjolras,” He responds in kind, before patting him on the back. “Don’t worry, you’ll get there one day.”

“But there’s no where to get!” Enjolras responds, almost manically, before the librarian shushes him.

~*~

Of course, the skeletons in his closets had been dancing for a long time before he came to Hogwarts, but Grantaire of all people had to be the one to rip open the door and usher them into the light, and it begun with Third Year.

~*~

Enjolras pinched the bridge of his nose. “Why are you being so obtuse about this?”

“Me?” Grantaire admonishes. “I’m the obtuse one? Are you mad? You’re the one standing on a chair preaching about how you’re going to change the world. And how, exactly, are you going to that? Good looks will get you far, but I don’t know if those cheekbones possess a ‘save the world’ factor.”

“I just _told_ you,” He hissed. “If you hadn’t spent the past ten minutes arguing with me--”

“Oh, forgive me, I just generally tend to zone out when someone starts spouting bullshit--”

“It’s not bullshit!”

“What is then?” Grantaire shoots back. “Tell me what it is, in plain English with none of those revolutionary buzzwords.”

“Lower-class wizards have anger, justifiable anger over the prejudice and pain inflicted on them by those deemed ‘higher’ than them in society--”

“Please,” Grantaire spat. “Don’t you see that you _are_ the problem? You and your pure-blood parents. They are the problem, and they’ll never ever have to answer for it. And I bet they don’t even feel guilty for it, because that’s just _how they are_. What do you know of pain? Of loss? You still get to go home to mommy and daddy every summer to your cush house in some ridiculously affluent area-”

Enjolras has stopped breathing. Not out of breath but floored, suspended everything frozen as Grantaire’s words punch him in the stomach and stab him through the heart.

“ _R_.” Enjolras has never heard such force to Ferre’s words before. All Enjolras can do is focus on his words. He knows people are talking, he can feel Courfeyrac tug on his hand and someone is asking him if he’s alright, but--

“I want to-- I have to go.”

He feels sick to his stomach, the blood is drained from his face and he stumbles down from the chair, mind reeling as memories claw up through the depths of his mind and force their way into his head.

 

Ferre reaches out to take his hand as he goes but Enjolras yanks it away. “Just let me go.” And he hates the desperation in his voice, and all the eyes in the room staring at him in shock.

 

The next few minutes pass in a blur. His eyes are hot and his jaw clenched as he makes his way through the school with no destination in mind, ghosts dancing in his mind over the graves things left unsaid and memories gone unopened for the better part of two years. 

He finds himself in the owlery, perched on the window sill with his knees tucked underneath his chin as he stares out of the window and wipes tears from his face angrily and swallows back the sobs that lie as a lump in his throat.

Behind him the door creeks open. “Go away, Combeferre. Please.”

“It’s um, it’s not Combeferre.” 

Enjolras knows that voice, undoubtedly.

He whips his head around, only to lock eyes with Grantaire. The boy is leaning against the door frame and gives him a nervous look. “Can I come in?”

“Whatever you want,” He replies without any feeling, turning his head back to looking out at the grounds. It feels like every bit of anger has been drained from him, he just feels like a bottomless pit of sadness.

“I won’t come in if you don’t want me to,” R hedges.

“I don’t want to argue with you, R,” He says tiredly. “I’ve done it too much. Come in if you want to, don’t if you don’t.”

He hesitates, but then Enjolras hears the door close and foot steps approaching him, before R is standing over him. Enjolras tilts his head to sweep his eyes over the boy. “You can sit down, if you’d like.” 

With that R plops himself down by Enjolras’s feet swiftly. “I’m, uh,” He clears his throat. “I’m really sorry about what I said. It was really mean and I understand if you never want to see me again--

“It’s not that,” Enjolras interrupts him. “It’s not. You don’t have to be sorry about that. I value your opinion, I really do. And I would never, ever want you to leave Les Amis.”

“Okay,” R says slowly, uncertain. “Well, I’m sorry at whatever it was that made you so upset.”

“My father killed himself,” Enjolras says quietly, focusing intently on his shoes. “No one ever told me exactly why, but I know. I saw the mark on his forearm. And he left letters. One for my mother, which I read when she accidently left it out on her desk and I think one for me, but I haven’t found it yet. His guilt was overwhelming, apparently.” He pauses. “He chose to leave, you know? I know I can’t really blame him, but he died and mother changed and now it’s just me. All because of what he’d done, of the prejudices he acted out on-- I can’t not try to fix it. Everytime I change someone’s mind, or make a speech about Muggle Integration or something-- Everytime, I think, I might save someone’s father or mother, and countless acts of hatred. I know it’s not the same, that the Dark Lord isn’t here and the ministry is becoming better in some small lengths, but still, if I don’t do anything, then my father died for what?”

“I know we’re not the same,” He says quietly, and R has never seen this kind of deep, emotional _hurt_ play out on someone’s face before. “And I know your father died too, and that must be equally as hard for you, but.” He stops, has to swallow around the lump in his throat and furiously palm away at the tears brimming in his eyes. “But at least your father didn’t want to go. He would have stayed if he could have. Mine chose to. And I have to bear that for the rest of my life-- Knowing that I wasn’t enough. But maybe _this_ , Les Amis, will be.”

 

“Enjolras,” Grantaire begins quietly, at a complete loss for words because what kind of emotionally stunted idiot is he?

“I just...” The other boys says, covering his eyes with his hand and letting out a shuddery breath. “He was… He was the best. I loved him so much. I thought he could do no wrong and then-” He breaks off with a choked sob and he can’t hold back the tears anymore, couldn’t if he tried because he _misses_ his dad, misses him so much. His face crumples, and before R knows what he’s doing he’s leaning into Enjolras’s space and pulling him in for a bone-crushing hug. Enjolras stills for a second, and R is prepared to pull away and apologise, before he grips him back like a drowning man to a life preserver and finally let out a broken cry against R’s collarbone.

“It’s okay,” Grantaire whispers into his hair. “It’s okay to miss him, I know.”

That only seems to make Enjolras cry harder, but Grantaire just hugs him tighter, almost trying to meld their bodies together. 

“He was so good, and so kind,” He whispers amidst the cries. “We look so alike, sometimes I’m not sure if it’s my reflection or him staring back at me. And I know it hurts my mother, because she doesn’t look at me anymore and she took down all the pictures.” Grantaire lets out a breath at the admission and screws his eyes shut because how could anyone willingly deny themselves Enjolras? Someone so pure, someone with such an untouched, genuine goodness in them, someone that only ever wants to help. And if he were your own flesh and blood? How could you be so cold to remove yourself from such a warmth? “He was so _good_ but so corrupted, and if that will be me too? What if it’s all for nothing and I was nothing--”

“No,” Grantaire says immediately, fiercely. “No. Not you. You’ll be the man your father should have been, if not better. Just because your mother can’t see that doesn’t make it less. You’ll never be _less_ , Enjolras. You could never be. You will always, always have a fire inside you that no one could put out. And you’ll do great things with it. And I bet your dad is very, very proud of you for fixing what he wronged.”

Enjolras sighs into his jumper, and Grantaire feels a flood of relief when it sounds easier. But he holds him a little tighter as the minutes pass before they have to disentangle themselves, for good measure.

~*~

A person in words, Grantaire muses as the end of their third year draws closer, is an almost impossible enigma. More accurately, _Enjolras_ in words in an almost impossible enigma.

 

How can words ever be enough?

How can words describe the curl in his sun-golden hair? The curls that erupt from his hairline and fall into his eyes, hair that looks like the worst case of bed head you could ever imagine and he acts like he doesn't care but the truth is every time you see him run a desperate hand through it that's his way of trying to flatten it, of trying to look presentable like his mother would want. Bear in mind, this is the boy who had long curly hair to his shoulders, who hated haircuts but hated to be called ‘little lady’ even more.

(It wasn’t even the being misgendered that irritated him, he had told Grantaire one day in potions, it was the fact that ‘little lady’ is not so much used as a compliment but more to reinforce the position that society forces on women.)

How could Grantaire ever be talented enough to capture his being, his uniqueness, his very essence with words? With what pen, what keyboard or touch screen could he craft and weave words worthy enough to paint him on a canvas screen with type as his medium?

He could offer this instead- He is like the sun. Everything about him, within him radiates...something. Something that the most talented writer could not describe to you because it's like sunshine, if you want to deny its very being. But it is not hot or golden or yellow. It is all encompassing, it's a flash of bright, white light, so pure that it hurts to stare for too long.

(But when he looks at you?

It feels like you're the most important person in the room, the centre of the universe.

But then he looks away, and you feel cold. So cold that it sometimes makes you wonder if you could bear to be without the warmth he provides. And you think if he would only look at you one more time, if he would only indulge you in his sky blue eyes and let you bask in his light for as long as he'll allow, it would be enough.

So he looks at you again-- maybe because he wants to, maybe because you wanted him to, maybe because you wished for it so much that whatever god is up there took pity and allowed it-- and the feelings rush back.

And he'll give you a smile and maybe a wave or perhaps a _’hey’_ and it's such a change from the glare that usually graces his face, that you're his again. Completely and wholly and he doesn't even know.)

He has such angry eyes, R has noted. Is it a trick of the light when he thinks they soften when they land on him?

But then he looks away, and you're back where you started.

How can anyone have that much power?

Why should anyone be allowed to have that control?

Physicality is well and good, but how could words do justice to his personality? To the anger that lives in him, that roars with such ferocity and power sometimes Grantaire wonders if it will consume it, if it will eat him alive.

He’s seen it, sometimes. When he gets angry-- Angry at whatever the topic of the day is. Maybe his mom's forgotten his birthday again or maybe his uncle is still trying to get his hands on the family fortune or maybe it’s just a bad day.

Sometimes he shakes. All that fire, that rage and power in him, turns inside, destroying him like he destroys whoever is on the receiving end of his words, sharp like poison, relentless and unforgiving.

A person in words.

Grantaire settles on this--

He is unforgivably angry at the world.

He is like the sun.

His hair is as untamed as he is.

Grantaire is his.

But he is not Grantaire’s.

~*~

Fourth year comes and goes in the usual flurry of school stress, exams and new spells. 

There’s not much to be said for that year, really. The ABC continue to fight the system (“fuck yeah!” “Courf, I’m going to hex you if you say that one more time after I make a statement I swear to Merlin.”), and Enjolras and Grantaire. 

Well.

“I can’t smell anything,” Enjolras grumbled. “Apart from your cologne-- Christ R how much did you put on today?”

“I hardly put on any, the bottles nearly out,” The other boy retorted. “Plus, it’s amortentia. You’re meant to smell the scent of your true love. Maybe you just can’t smell anything because you wouldn’t know human emotion if it bit you in the nose.”

“Well you must have done something wrong, because I followed the instructions to the letter.”

“I didn’t do anything!”

“Well what can you smell?”

“Just the usual scent of righteous fury I always get around you, fearless leader.” A particularly sharp jab in the ribs had R cursing. “Christ, calm down.” He took a tentative sniff, and balked. “You think I put on a lot of cologne? Speak for yourself. What did you do, pour the after shave bottle all over yourself?”

“I never put on much, you know that!”

Behind them, Courf was attempting to brain himself on his desk, banging it against it with dull thuds.

“Um, Courf?” Marius asked worriedly. “What are you doing?”

“Well, Pontmercy, I figure that death by blunt force head trauma will hurt less than watching the sexual frustration between those two idiots.”

That sums up fourth year as a whole, really.

~*~

Fifth year sees both Enjolras and Grantaire get accepted in the Slug Club.

“I’m so jealous,” Courfeyrac whines, sprawled morosely across the dining table. 

“Move your head I need to get the toast,” Enjolras replied.

“It’s not a big deal,” Grantaire answered around muggle cereal. “He probably just picked names out of a hat anyways.”

“Can I go as your date?” Courfeyrac asked, shooting up from the table with gleaming eyes. 

“I’m sitting right here,” Combeferre said evenly.

“I know, love, but sometimes social climbing require the greatest sacrifices.”

Grantaire grinned. “Even if I could, I wouldn’t. I’ve already got a date. And I was lucky enough to get that, so I’m not giving that up.”

Enjolras’s toast freezes halfway to his mouth. “You what?”

“Got a date?” Grantaire answered slowly. “Look, I know I’m not the best looking guy but--”

“No, no, not that. I mean.. Who? Why?”

“He wants us to bring a date. Make it more social or whatever. I asked Montparnasse.”

The toast gets dropped to plate. “ _Montparnasse_?”

“Is a really great guy who likes the same things as me and was the best possible candidate for a date,” Grantaire finishes, reaching over to nick the toast off Enjolras’s plate. And Enjolras, still frozen in shock, doesn’t put up a fight. 

“What’s the big deal?” R frowned. “Who are you bringing?”

“No one.”

“Rebelling against the ideal that to be complete one must have a significant other?”

“I… Yes. That.”

R nodded and fist pumped the air. “Rock on.”

~*~

**Contingency plan to get your shit together and go out with Sebastien Grantaire by Julien Enjolras IV, part the first second third Fourth by Stefan de Courfeyrac and Julien Enjolras IV**

You: “Hello, Grantaire. It’s occurred to me that we’ve both been invited to bring a guest to December’s slug club meeting.”

R: “Oh hey Enjolras/Apollo/Fearless leader, right you are. *Insert snarky comment here*  
( **Note!!!!!** If self depreciating--in looks, personality or other-- refute it! Cite your sources. (you’re the source.))

You: “Well, in the interest of saving spaces and decreasing food waste, perhaps we should go together. Not only would we be doing a good, but I would also have a very good time as I think I have feelings for you and would very much enjoy your company for the evening.”

~~R: “Enjolras, I would love nothing more. In fact, I think I’ll take down my sarcastic exterior to show you that this entire time, I’ve also had feelings for you!”~~

~~You: “What a coincidence!”~~

~~Then you bang.~~

You: “If this does not appeal to you and you don’t return my feelings, then please kindly disregard this conversation. But do keep in mind the food drive we’re holding next week for the house elves.”

 

Enjolras was actually quite saddened that he couldn’t use this plan, in the end.

~*~

That summer, Enjolras comes home, and his mother is dusting off a picture of them-- the three of them-- all smiling wildly into the camera.

She looks up at him, and gives him a watery smile. “Hello, darling.”

She hasn’t called him that in a long, long time, he remembers. 

“I’m… I’m sorry. About the way I acted. It was self-centred of me. I forgot that you miss him too.”

“I forgive you.”

She ushers him into the kitchen, and they sip tea.

“He did terrible things,” Enjolras says eventually into the quiet.

His mother lowers her tea cup to her saucer and nods. “That he did.”

“Did you know?”

She pauses. “Not… Entirely. I knew about the mark. And I was from a family that encouraged that sort of thinking, so at the time I didn’t think much of it. Over the years, of course, our mindsets changed and it ate and ate at him, bit by bit. I knew he was quite high up in the Dark Army, but… If you want to know whether or not I knew about the murders, truthfully I could tell you know. But I would be lying if I said I hadn’t suspected it.”

“Why did he do it?” He asked.

She takes another sip, and considers. “He was young. About your age. Not as strong minded, of course, but young. And from a family as influential as his, and the kind of thoughts that were rampant in slytherin… He was a victim of circumstance, I think. It makes what he did understandable, but not excusable.” His mother sighs. “He tried so hard to undo what he did. He passed laws, implemented programmes to stop that kind of hate from spreading again. But the past caught up with him.”

“He didn’t even get jail time.”

“Your grandfather got him out. He hadn’t done as much as his counterparts, which was something.”

“But he still did terrible things.”

“And he payed the price. I know it hurt us deeply, but it’s the only way he could find absolution. And that’s what matters-- It’s a small comfort, but at least he was willing to pay that price.”

There’s a silence as Enjolras stared into his tea, tears building behind his eyes. His mother reaches over and delicately strokes his hair. “He would be so proud of you.”

“Really?”

“Julien, you are everything he hoped for in a new generation. You’re brave and kind and noble, and you know when to right a wrong. You don’t have to be great you know,” She says gently. “You don’t have to lead rebellions or fix everything wrong with the world. You just have to be good. That’s all anyone could ask for you. That’s all we really need in this world right now.”

He fiddled with his cup. “I think you’re right.” He pauses. “I still might lead a rebellion against the blasted Ministry, though.”

~*~

However it’s widely accepted that Sixth Year is when everything changes.

 

“Come on, R, you beautiful bastard!” Bahorel screams as Grantaire whips through the stadium, defending Ravenclaw’s goal like he was born to do it.

“ _Mr. Bahorel!_ ”

“Sorry professor!” He screams back, and then grins. “He’s doing brilliantly, isn’t he?” He asks, at a thankfully much lower decibel.

Enjolras nods, unable to fight his own proud smile. “He is. This could easily get him player of the year.”

“That fucker better. If he doesn’t then there’s truly no justice in this godforsaken world.”

Enjolras opens his mouth to answer, but he’s cut off by a collective gasp and the sickening sound of brooms colliding and the snap of wood.

And there’s R, tumbling through the clouds, fast enough that despite Albus’s speed he can’t catch up and then--

There’s a scream that tears itself from his lips as he hits the ground, the deafening thud reverberating around the stadium. 

Enjolras can’t move, he’s frozen in shock, paralysed with fear, but everyone around him is rushing forward, trying to catch a glimpse as teachers run down to the pitch, and there’s the distinctive voice of Madame Pomfrey giving someone instructions. The din rises up again, horrible words like “He’s dead!” “Did you see the way his arm was twisted?” “He’s so pale-- Do you think he’s going to survive?”

Icy tendrils wrap their way around Enjolras’s throat and they settle heavy in his stomach. Someone tugs at his arm, and he turns to see Combeferre. 

“C’mon,” The other boy says, impossibly gentle amongst the raucous uproar of the other students. “Enjolras, come on. We’ll go see him. He’ll be fine, okay? He’ll be fine.”

The fear must show in Enjolras’s eyes, because Combeferre pulls him in for a tight, quick hug, before grabbing his glove-clad hand and leading him down the steps from the stadium into the building to the Hospital wing. 

~*~

Grantaire wakes slowly, blinking groggily against the harsh fluorescent lights and… bright golden hair.

“Enj?” He croaks, voice rough from disuse. 

“Oh! You’re awake. I, um-- These are for you.” Something soft is flung at Grantaire’s chest and he looks to see a bouquet. A really nice bouquet. With roses and daisies and tulips. Also his arm is in a cast, but he’s mostly just really happy and a good bit confused about the bouquet.

“...Thank you?”

“They’re from Courfeyrac!” Enjolras blurts out. 

“Well, that was really thoughtful of him. What time is it, by the way?”

“Oh, like, three in the morning?” The boy glances down at his watch. “Oh sorry, I was wrong. It’s actually half three.”

“In the morning?”

“In the morning.”

“Enjolras,” Grantaire says slowly, because his medicine-addled mind is racing to catch up with what the fuck is actually happening. “What are you doing here at _three_ in the morning?”

“I’m just checking to see how you’re doing,” He answers in an instant, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Never been better,” Grantaire replies breezily

“ _Grantaire._ ”

“Sorry, sorry. Look, I mean, how do you think? My arm hurts like a bitch--”

“You broke it, the cast is just a precautionary measure to make sure it set absolutely right, it should be off in a week, tops.”

“My chest is killing me--”

“You’re second and third ribs are fractured, the spell might not have taken full effect yet.”

“And there’s a deranged, good-looking, blonde boy sitting by my bedside at _three in the morning_ when he should be asleep. Don’t you have an exam tomorrow?”

“You think I’m good-looking?” At least he has the decency to sound surprised. 

“Enjolras, in case you weren’t aware, _yes_ I think you’re good-looking, now go the fuck to sleep.”

Whatever Enjolras was about to say gets cut off by a nurse chasing him out of the room.

~*~

The next morning, when R thanks Courf for the lovely flowers, he notes the confusion on the boy’s face, the strange look Combeferre shoots Enjolras. There’s a blush on Enjolras’s cheeks, but he reckons that’s probably just from the cold outside.

~*~

“How are you doing?” Grantaire jumps as Enjolras’s voice cuts through the noise of Les Amis’s annual Non-denominational December festive party (that’s the edited version), appearing almost out of thin air at his side. 

“Jesus Christ,” He curses.

Enjolras frowns. “No, just me. Anyways, I repeat- how are you doing?”

“Good enough. My ribs are still kind of tender from the bruising, and I’m still sporting this bad boy,” He points and grins at the shiner of a black eye that’s blossomed across his face. “But definitely better. I’m cast-free now, so I can draw again.” He wiggles his fingers for emphasis.

“You only had it on for one day, didn’t you?”

“An artist’s love knows no bounds,” He answers sincerely. 

Enjolras suddenly looks unsure, wrong footed. It’s unnerving, and Grantaire is brought back to that day almost three years ago in the tower. “Would you mind maybe coming outside with me for a minute?”

Grantaire tries to swallow the lump in his throat. “Sure.” He follows Enjolras out, until they’ve left the spare classroom and Enjolras is perched on a windowsill. Behind him, snow is falling lightly.

“Um, I got you. In the secret gift exchange. I thought I might give it to you out here in case you didn’t like it.”

Grantaire lets out a relieved laugh. “Yeah, sure. Thanks so much.”

“Well, just.” And then Enjolras is lowering his head and thrusting a package into Grantaire’s arms.

It’s messily wrapped, which just makes him smile harder because it’s proof that this is an officially Enjolras-wrapped present. There’s a brief battle with the sellotape, but eventually he gets it open, to reveal a big, wooden case. He quirks an eyebrow at the boy, and his blush heightens. When he clicks it open, he gasps. “Jesus, I-- Enjolras, what the _hell_?”

“Do you not like it?” He looks stricken. “I tried to remember exactly what it was you said you needed more of but I couldn’t so I just thought I’d get all of them, and the man _told_ me they were the best--”

“No no no, it’s not that, Enjolras, this is way too much. Like, _way_ too much. How much did you even spend on this?” He looks back down at the case, filled with the finest art products that prior to this Grantaire hadn’t even dreamed he could touch. 

“That’s not important. Do you like it?”

“Yes. _Yeah_ , of course I like it, but you shouldn’t have.”

“Well, I wanted to.”

Grantaire scoffs fondly at him and goes back to admiring his gift as a pleasant silence settles between them.

“Are you going home for christmas?” He asks eventually, the case all locked up and set at his feet.

“Yes.”

“Oh.” Grantaire rubs the back off his neck. “Goodbye, then.”

“Goodbye, then,” Enjolras responds, and looks back up at the mistletoe. He leans in softly, hesitating once before Grantaire nods, and kisses him. Gently, so gently that Grantaire wants to hold it in his hands to make sure it’s real, but before he can, Enjolras is pulling back.

“Merry Christmas, Grantaire.”

And then he’s getting up and walking away, the warmth of him still ghosting across Grantaire’s lips.

~*~

With a burst of unfamiliar self-esteem and adrenaline, Grantaire knocks feverently on Enjolras’s dorm door. There’s a few seconds of silence as he shuffles to the door, and he wretches it open with a scowl.

“Courf, I don’t want eggnog leave me-- Oh.”

“Hi,” Grantaire breathlessly.

“Hey.”

“So I was thinking, and that gift you got me must have cost a lot, right?” He takes a step forward. 

“Um, if you want to view things in a monetary manner--”

“And in the spirit of giving, I probably should have gotten you something too.” Another step, he’s reached the door frame now, and Enjolras is tantalizingly close.

“But the whole point of the gift exchange was--”

“Enjolras,” He cuts him off. “I really, really want to give you a present. In fact, I think I’ve wanted to give you this particular present since the minute I first saw you.”

Enjolras is a smart boy, because he steps forward minutely himself and wets his lips. “Oh?”

“Mmhm. And actually, I thought tonight, by the window, you might have beaten me to it. But I really, really want to be the giver of this particular gift. So, Enjolras, will you please let me kiss you again?”

“Merlin, _yes_.”

He can’t remember exactly who initiates what, but his lips are on Enjolras’s and they’re warm and his tongue is elegant in Grantaire’s mouth and he is _helpless_ in this moment, so let’s himself be dragged into the room and finally bask in Enjolras’s warmth.

~*~

“Do you want to tell them?” 

It’s the first night back at school since the holiday break, and Grantaire finds himself in the owlery with Enjolras, leaning against the brick wall with his head in his laps and his fingers running through his golden curls.

“Tell who?” He asks, for the sake of being a little shit.

“Slughorn,” Enjolras snipes. “Who do you think? Our friends. Les Amis.”

“I don’t know,” He answers evenly, honestly, which is a pretty big thing for him. “I think this is a new thing, and I think our friends over-zealous micro-watching might convolute it a bit. We can if you want to, though. If it would make you happy. I don’t want you to feel closeted or anything.”

“No, I think you’re right.” He reaches up with a finger to trace Grantaire’s lips. “We have time.”

Grantaire grins and kisses his palm. “We have time,” He murmurs.

~*~

Of course, time is an abstract concept and all too soon Enjolras finds himself swept up in school work and studies and countless exams and essays. But at nights, after dinner and before curfew, when Grantaire greets him with a kiss and a hug, that’s what Enjolras lives for.

There’s generally a lot of kissing involved. Also, by default, a lot of talking. But their arguments aren’t big and explosive like they were when they were thirteen and fourteen, they’re interesting debates and for everyone one of Enjolras’s points that R shoots down deftly, Enjolras falls a little bit more in love with him. It’s Spring now, and the days are getting shorter as Summer creeps in, and Grantaire has boldly decided that they’re going to take a romantic walk by the lake. Enjolras is skeptical about exactly what’s going to happen on said walk (he’s holding out for a lot of kissing), but he’s looking forward to it all the same. In fact, Enjolras is pretty much always in a Grantaire-occupied state these days--

“-Jolras?”

He snaps out of his daze. “Hmm?”

“I’ve been repeating your name for the last five minutes,” Combeferre frowns. 

“Shit, sorry. What were you saying?”

“Are you okay? You’re not stressing too much about school or anything, are you?”

“No, ‘Ferre, I’m fine.” He gets a Look. “Honestly! Really, I’ve been feeling great these past few months.”

“You promise?”

“I promise. Do you have the time?”

“It’s nearly seven.”

“Shoot, I should go. I have a test. On a thing. I’ve got to study. Hard. Well not _hard_ but-- You know what mean. Okay bye.”

Combeferre is still in the midst of processing that particular interaction when Courfeyrac sits down beside him. “R’s being so weird lately. Like, we were in the middle of watching the junior’s quidditch practice when he just up and leaves, all ‘oh uh sorry Courf I’ve got a thing!’” Courfeyrac scoffs. “He’s a got a thing. Bullshit he has a thing.”

“Strange,” Combeferre muses. “Enjolras is the same, actually. I just has the most peculiar conversation with him. It’s like they're hiding something.”

“Maybe they’re both in a secret relationship and want to keep it on the downlow or something.”

This time, it’s Combeferre who snorts. “Or something.”

Beside them at the table, Jehan, who as per usual had been staring out the window, pipes up “Is that Grantaire and Enjolras walking together?”

Courfeyrac’s pen clatters to the ground and Combeferre nearly spits out his juice. “Oh my god,” They say in tandem.

~*~

Next morning-- A Monday, no less, Enjolras comes bursting into the Great Hall and sprints over to the table, unusually disheveled and out of breath.

“Sorry,” He pants. “I slept late. I was… studying.”

A second later, Grantaire comes running in behind him. “Up all night,” He explains, shovelling toast in his mouth. “Doing… art.”

“Curious,” Combeferre broods. 

Enjolras freezes and Grantaire’s chewing comes to a halt. 

“How so?” Grantaire asks, muffled around a mouthful of toast.

“Oh, nothing. I’m probably just plucking things from thin air. I just think it’s strange that Enjolras is wearing a Ravenclaw tie and Grantaire is wearing a Slytherin one.”

The colour of the ties becomes irrelevant in a heartbeat because both boys are flushed with the same blood-red of the gryffindor colours. 

“We can explain--” Enjolras begins, before Bahorel stands up and whoops delightedly.

“You fuckers owe me ten galleons!” He crows.

~*~

“R.”

Silence.

“Grantaire.”

“Mmph.”

“I have to tell you something.”

“Sleep now. Talk later.”

“It’s _important_.”

“Enjolras, unless you’ve murdered someone, I highly doubt this can’t wait until a reasonable hour in the morning.”

“I’ve murdered someone.”

That, at least, earns him an eye creaked open and Grantaire shifting up onto one elbow in Enjolras’s bed. (And honestly, if ever Enjolras is going to take advantage of his family’s standing, this is the only time because having a single dorm is a _blessing_.)

“What did you do?” Grantaire asks lowly.

“Okay so I didn’t actually kill anyone, but--” Enjolras ignores the groan Grantaire lets out into his pillow. “But I need you to hear this. Please.”

Slightly more awake now, Grantaire sits up. “What is it?”

“Remember when you broke your arm and stuff and hurt yourself after that match quidditch match, and Courf gave you those flowers?”

“Oh yeah,” He says idly, wondering what this has to do with literally anything on the planet as a whole.

“They were from me. I was going to ask you out after the match, after you’d won-- or lost, but you’d have probably won-- And I had flowers and then you woke up and I chicken out.”

R freezes, and then laughs, loud enough he has to muffle it with the pillow. 

“It’s not funny,” Enjolras says petulantly.

“Yes, you’re right. Sorry. It’s not funny. It’s very sweet, and the most endearing thing I’ve ever heard, but it’s not funny.” A silent beat. “I mean it’s a little funny.”

“ _R_.”

“Sorry.” He gives Enjolras’s wrist a gentle tug. “But seriously, what did you want to say?”

“That was it.”

“No it wasn’t,” He says, and he can see Enjolras avert his eyes, even in the darkness. “C’mon,” He says gently, wrapping his arms around Enjolras’s waist and pulling him close to his side, hugging him tight. “What was it? Whatever it is, I’m all ears.”

Enjolras’s fingers tap out an irregular beat on R’s ribcage. “It’s nothing.”

“Well it’s clearly something.”

“I just. I just don’t know what to do.” He’s silent for a minute, gathering his thoughts, before continuing. “I want to be with you so much. I know it’s my first relationship and people say I don’t really know what I’m feeling or whatever, but I _do_ know what I’m feeling, without a doubt, and that is that I don’t want to be without you in my life. But we’ll be away from each other all Summer and you might meet some better looking person that’s twice that person I am, and even if you don’t what are we going to do after seventh year? I’ll hopefully be working in the Ministry but you should be out in colleges or whatever the muggles call them being an amazing artist and I’ll just be dragging you down like a dead weight but I don’t want to let go of you--”

“Enjolras.”

“But I--”

“Hush.”

“I just--”

“I know.”

“Grantaire.”

“Enjolras.”

“Tell me everything will be alright,” He asks, his voice the smallest Grantaire’s ever heard it.

“Everything will be alright,” He reassures him, as he shifts the two of them so the Enjolras can look into his eyes will he rubs his back. “Because I might not believe in much, but I, without a shadow of a doubt, believe in you. And in that, I believe that you make me happier than I could ever be alone, and that I am lesser without you there. You fill a part of me I didn’t know I had and I’d like to think I do even a little bit of that for you. But people grow and change and maybe one day we’ll find we don’t need the other to fill that part of us. And that will be okay, because I promise you now, I will still look back on these six years and think _’God, how lucky was I was to spend them with him.’_ ”

In his arms, Enjolras is like jelly, all the anxiety and nerves that had made him taught seeped out of him. “How do you always know the right thing to say?”

Grantaire grins. “Hasn’t anyone told you? I’m a magic man, baby.”

~*~

“Hey, I have a present for you.” Grantaire snakes his arms around Enjolras’s waist and whispers the words in his ear.

“I thought you wanted me to meet your mom and step-dad,” He says, but there’s a fond smile on his face. 

“In a second. C’mere.” And with that, tugs him away from the festivities.

The festivities being _it_ , D-Day, The Big One, the one and only, Graduation.  
It’s weird to think that six years ago Grantaire was walking into this building fresh-faced and wide eyed, and is now about to leave it (with a blonde attached to his side).

“I have something to show you,” He says, and reveals the letter that was hidden in his trouser pocket. He hands it to Enjolras. “Here. Read it.”

Enjolras flashes him a skeptical look but deigns to do it anyways, opening the envelope and unfolding the paper. “Dear Mr. Sebastien Grantaire, we are pleased to offer you a place at Royal College of Arts… R, this is amazing!” He flings his arms around him and peppers kisses and encouragements into his neck. When they break away, however, Grantaire is still smiling at him expectantly. “What?”

“Do you know where the Royal College of Arts is?”

“...England?”

“Close enough. London. And do you know where in London it is?”

Hope is starting to flutter in Enjolras’s stomach. “I’m hoping you’ll tell me.”

“Right beside a floo network.”

“So we can…?”

“I’ve already started apartment hunting.”

Enjolras’s smile is blinding, as he takes R’s face in his hands. “I love you.”

Grantaire bends down to rest his forehead against Enjolras’s. It feel like this is what it’s been about-- Every fight, every make up, every joke, every kiss, every hug. Everything he’s ever done since meeting him has come back to Enjolras. 

“I love you, too.”

A gentle kiss, not their first, and certainly not their last. No, Grantaire resolves, there will be many more moments like this. And god, how lucky Grantaire is to share them with Enjolras.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are greatly appreciated!
> 
> Happy holidays!


End file.
